Shadow Road: Book 1 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy

27. Tempests in Teacups

30th of Uirra, Continued

Delicate pink rosebuds twined around the inside edge of the teacup in front of me. If I squinted a bit, it could almost have been from my mother's good set. This one wasn't as fine, though, and had taken the wear of many hands. The insulative and handle were made of plain cast tin, not copper, and the saucer was cheap, with single-color roses stamped on it. Still, it was so familiar, this act of drinking tea while sitting by a café's front window, that I couldn't make myself disturb the tea.

Maybe if the teacup remained as it was, everything around it would stay normal too. So I sat there memorizing it, noticing things I never would have before – how the rich amber of the tea perfectly complemented the pale ivory of the porcelain lining, how the milk billowed in miniature thunderclouds at the bottom of the cup before forming a smooth layer just beneath the surface...

"Would you prefer Offgarten?"

The rumble of Captain Arramy's voice grated over my ragged nerves, and I flinched. Then I sighed. It was an innocent enough question. Understandable, even, since I hadn't taken so much as a sip of the tea he had ordered. "No. This is fine. I like a good provincial," I managed to say.

Arramy was quiet, and I heard the sound of a biscuit breaking.

I looked at him and almost smiled in spite of myself. He was decidedly out of place, his long frame folded into a café chair covered in pink-checked cotton, his battle-roughened fingers trying to hold a teacup by its slender handle. Then I swallowed, my heartbeat quickening, my mind conjuring up an all-too-vivid memory of what those fingers felt like in my hair as his mouth moved over mine — No! Bad! Stop that. Stay focused. Keen and sharp. Like a knife. I am a knife.

I took a breath and picked up my teacup. "So where are you from, Captain?" I asked. I could try to be polite, if only to pass the time.

A gentleman would have honored my question with an actual response. For example: Down by Hestersham. I grew up in a cottage on the heath. And you, Miss Warring?

The Captain gave a small, non-committal half-shrug, and about half an answer. "A little bit of everywhere."

I took a careful sip of tea, eyeing him over the rim of porcelain. "Where were you born, then?" I asked. I wasn't feigning interest. I had never met a living rock before. Did they hatch, or grow in the soil like a potato?

He glanced at me. "North Altyr."

It was too easy. I quirked a wicked grin. "The whole of north Altyr. Two thousand square miles of mountains. Your mother must be an incredible woman."

Arramy's jaw flickered and he looked away, but not before I caught the quick flare of pain in his eyes.

I sobered instantly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend."

Arramy didn't say anything. He just fiddled with the bit of biscuit he hadn't eaten, tapping it on the edge of his saucer. Then he dropped it on his plate and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

My urge to have a polite conversation petered out. I watched him for a moment longer, trying to see a hint of personality beneath that stony exterior, but whatever I had seen was gone, the hatches firmly battened, all holds barred. Oddly disappointed, I went back to looking out the window.

The sky was a stark, jagged cutout of unfettered blue framed between the overhanging upper stories of St. Camyrre Street. Icicles dripped and sparkled from every edge of every building, giving the dreariness of Lordstown's low district an air of fairy-tale.

People bustled along the wooden boardwalks: women with children too small for the local parochial school; a few older men out for a late-morning saunter to their favorite pub; messenger boys dashing from one business to another, carrying papers or parcels.

They all seemed so innocent. But were they? Maybe the ancient prune of a sailor sitting on the bench outside the cafe window wasn't simply smoking his pipe and feeding the gulls. Maybe he was watching the Iron Dragon Inn, waiting for NaVarre to show his face. Maybe the girl hawking mended jackets on the corner had been hired by this mysterious Coventry organization to follow us. Maybe this whole half-baked scheme was going to get us killed.

I was well lost in a bog of worry and suspicion when Arramy cleared his throat and asked, gruffly, "Where are you from, Miss Warring?"

I jerked away from the window.

The Captain was regarding me from under his lashes, keen eyes missing nothing.

"Garding," I got out, lifting my tea to my lips again. After all, I was only a normal girl having a normal conversation with her normal older male relative/brother/guardian who had kissed her. Oh do shut up!

Arramy absorbed my answer without reaction and took another drink of tea. Not a sip. A gulp. The rest of it down at one go.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked.

Arramy's jaw flexed, his teeth parting before he closed them with a snap as he shook his head. Then his gaze sharpened on something out in the street. "About time," he muttered.

A moment later there was a jingle of door chimes as someone came into the café, vigorously rubbing his hands together and stomping his feet on the mat. I knew without looking who it was, and the sound of that low, rich laugh instantly had my skin prickling.

There was a small production as NaVarre ordered a spiced taratine and a rum scone while flirting mercilessly with the shop girl. Then he came to sit in the chair directly behind mine. The rustle of a newspaper shaking open was followed by a painfully casual whisper, "There wasn't anything in his room."

Arramy was watching my face again. I looked away.

"Did you ask at the desk?" I asked, pretending to taste one of the little shell-shaped shortbreads that came with the tea.

"Not officially, no," NaVarre said. He turned a page. "There wasn't anything left in the pigeonhole, and there was nothing left for the alias he might have used."

I closed my eyes. It sounded so hopeless. A dead end. But it also didn't sound like my father. He wouldn't have let us know there was a third binder, hidden the binder to keep it safe, then left no way for it to be found. There had to be some clue.

Something about that name in the guest register tugged at me. Montemortus. The 'friend' who was supposed to be in town, according to one of those cryptic messages in father's satchel. Why use a false name NaVarre would know to look for if not to let NaVarre find the binder? Why make it more difficult? Unless he wanted someone else to find it.

I opened my eyes. "Did you ask if there was anything left for me?"

NaVarre cleared his throat. "As charming as I am, there is no way I can pass for a Miss Brenorra Warring in this outfit."

What if my name was the problem? Frowning, I chased that thought. Father had given me a false name too, one that only I would know, one that I would have used if I had reached Lordstown because it was on the Galvania manifest: Larkham.

With a sigh, I got to my feet.

Arramy looked up. "Where are you going?"

"To ask if anyone left something for a woman who isn't Brenorra Warring," I said. "Obviously." I smiled and dipped into a half-sweet, as if we were all friends and I was taking my leave. Then I turned and headed for the door.

I heard the sound of a chair scraping back as I slipped outside, but I was already picking my way over the frozen wheel ruts in the street, once again approaching the Iron Dragon's front entrance. This time, though, I was alone. And this time, I wasn't thinking about what I would have to say. I already knew.

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